


Vandals

by LaughableLament



Series: Supernatural Poetry Month [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (Referenced) - Freeform, Episode: s12e03 The Foundry, Episode: s12e18 The Memory Remains, M/M, POV Second Person, PWP, Spoilers, and then they had sex, classic, episode coda, touch of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 20:54:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10624962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: The more you beg the more he’ll drag this out.





	

Four years ago you’da cut yourself, rather than cut anything in this Bunker. Kinda furniture they don’t make no more, kind it’d never dawned on you to dream about.

(Mom’s steel-tube, white-with-gold-stars laminate top. Somethin, didn’t have stacked bottle caps jammed under a leg to keep steady.)

_struggling_

Y’dunno if Sammy’ll go along, not just cuttin the table but makin his mark on the place, for keeps. Ah that ain’t fair; turnin all those card catalogs into computer files ain’t no joke. Real Man of Letters, this kid. Stuck-up limey pricks don’t give him enough credit.

_trying_

Look at the size of them hands, huh? Soft touch, blade cradled, carve off varnish, split the grain. Eyes look like he’s six years old, crammin a candy stash he knows you stole. Left field: shoulda confiscated Darren’s weed. All the laws you’ve broke, criminal you never smoked up your little brother.

Sam’s lips round and his cheeks puff; splinters swirl up.

_hunting_

Float a finger over the gouged-out S. Sam meets you, slides alongside. Touch with intent.

“Sammy you—” Still don’t know what happened in that farmhouse, just that Sam ain’t—

On his feet. Shirts stripped, all of em, one vast stretch of that bangin body. Shoes off, stalkin around the table. ’Bout to go pants down and ass up, look on that face. Sam kisses a landslide, damn and it’s been—you don’t even know—for the bossy, take-take-take.

He pushes you up on the table and your mind flails, nearest lubelike substance.

Which would be the packet in his pocket.

“When did you—?”

“Just now. But I been—”

Fuck and if you were a better man you’d get on the brakes here, check Sam’s solid, sure. But what you do is kiss him again, drop your jeans and flip the fuck over. Sammy don’t take long, makes you a beggin fuckin hole so fast your head spins. Fresh white wood scars between your fingers and dull red ache between your legs.

_years of personal experience_

“Come on, man. M’ready.”

Shoves you down. Wraps you with his body and whispers, “Not til I say.”

Swing at a threatening growl but you just sound hungry. Sam rocks fingers in and out while he kisses down your back. Dick bangs the table edge, tremors and leaks. Fucker knows what he does to you, sucks bruises where you’re ticklish, tugs your hair. Lip wedged in your teeth, fists bang the hardwood. Sam moans into your skin and mumbles things, sappy things.

The more you beg the more he’ll drag this out.

Kid brought a rubber too, and you blurt, “Oh, god, fuck, yes,” when you hear the wrapper.

Slap on your ass and a dark-laughed, “Desperate for your little brother’s dick.”

_to avoid dealing_

No argument.

Sam pushes all in, one slow stroke. Low groan, long inches, pitches up. Pant. Sam winds arms around your chest, hair sweeps your neck, sweat slides between you and he runs a hand up, hooks two fingers in your mouth. He starts to move and you start to shake. Pulse in your asshole, everywhere Sam and where his arm’s locked underneath you, S.W.D.W. rock in and out of view.

Sam hits that hot slamming speed says he’s chasing his own. Full perfect pressure, rakes you up inside and he jerks you, hard squeeze and he slows. Tilts down. Takes you over so smooth, barely know you’re coming until he is, screaming your name and driving your thighs hard into the table.

You’ll have a mess to clean up in the morning, and ow. That’s the next thing you know.

Take Sam to the showers. Got some splinters in his arm you gotta pick out. Take him to bed. Back on the Dagon trail tomorrow, and, seriously find out what’s happening with Mick. Pray to Cas. Got work to do.

_like mother like sons_

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [spnapo](http://spnapo.livejournal.com)
> 
> Yes, yes. Even though this is not a proper poem and has f*ck-all to do with the prompt, prayers


End file.
